leave unsaid unspoken
by syndomatic
Summary: He can't help but think of the girl before. — MistyRedYellow, AU


I own nothing.

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Red is absolutely sure that someday, she is going to be his downfall.

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It starts like this:

Yellow sits on the third seat from the right, just close enough for him to look at her and far enough to let Gold dismiss his vacant stares as—well, him being himself. At least, that's his excuse. He doesn't mind him, though; because when he cocks his head to her direction, once, her face catches the light and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

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"You seem troubled," Misty comments, offhandedly, when they're walking home together and Red's hand is laced in hers, manicured nails against calloused skin. "What's wrong?"

Red laughs lightly, to shrug it off, because Misty rarely means the things she says; he would understand. He doesn't answer the question, though, and he realizes that he's screwed up five seconds after it stops mattering.

Misty is the better person, though. She lets go of his hand, remembers to smile, and doesn't press on (because she already knows).

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After his fourth remedial test, Red decides that fuck this, he can't do this alone. So he makes an appointment with Green and, swallowing his pride, even says thank you when he agrees to tutor him (he can practically _hear_ him smirk, that jerk).

Three days later, he knocks on his door, ten minutes late, and he feels his heart skip when he sees _her_ seated next to Green, head diligently buried between the pages of a notebook, blonde hair framing her pale face.

She notices his presence and shyly looks up, smiles softly for emphasis. He bites his lip and tries (fails) to keep himself focused; takes a seat, pulls out an empty notebook from inside his bag. Anything to distract himself.

Green raises an eyebrow, and Red's eyes widen, but then he looks away and starts talking some nonsense about variables and equations—that totally goes over his head—instead, as if nothing had happened. Red's not sure if he should feel thankful or humiliated.

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"I passed my algebra test," he boasts, his voice muffled from rice and vegetables. The rooftop is chilly and the small bench is wet from rain, but she thinks that the view is beautiful and he agrees because it's Misty. He doesn't argue with her.

"_Barely_," she tacks on, stuffing a spoonful of rice into her mouth, "But, anyway; I told you Green's a great teacher."

"Yeah," he agrees, and all of a sudden he's laughing and he knows exactly why.

"Congratulations." Misty says, but her smile is rehearsed, flimsy. Red pretends not to notice.

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He shakily offers to buy her ice cream on their way home from Green's house, once, two and a half months and a week and three days after he becomes absolutely sure that someday, she is going to be his downfall.

She agrees, and he thinks that it is the worst (best) thing that she could ever say to him.

A week later, they find themselves sitting in a park bench, shoes brushing against wet grass, and they're talking about something he can't remember and all of a sudden he notices the pink of her lips, the stars in her eyes, the sound of her laughter.

He leans in.

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Gold is the first to know. He's not surprised—Gold's always had a penchant for breaking things, after all.

But, wait: turns out, Gold is dating Crystal, and Crystal is maybe-friends with Blue, and Blue knows everybody, so. Gossip travels fast.

"What a surprise," Gold says, supresses a fake yawn. He leans against the metal fence, smoking a menthol cigarette despite the fact that there is no girl for him to lie to. "I thought you could do better."

He frowns, throws a basketball into a hoop to prove a point. "It's none of your business, Gold," he sighs, exasperated. "I swear—"

"I mean, if you're going to cheat on someone," he interrupts loudly, ignores him because that's what he's best at, "At least make the girl, I don't know, different? Special? Something like that. I mean, you'll probably get dumped by both, so—"

He doesn't hear the end of it, because by then he's already halfway outside the parking lot.

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Sometimes, Red looks Misty in the eye and he forgets who she is, momentarily. Maybe it has to do with the fact that her voice is distorted and her hair is the wrong color and she has freckles, _what_.

He's never been good at playing pretend, though.

It's just—it's easier to lie than be honest, so he doesn't bother to stop.

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It's the end.

Class is over, and she's sitting curtly on a chair in front of his, her lips a line, cold neutrality spreading across her features. Red would expect no less from her, and she's not one to disappoint; she's always had a flare for being dramatic—dramatic in the most subtle way, she mentioned. Not that it makes any sense, but. She's _Misty_. She calls the shots, makes the decisions.

She always wins—which is why, he thinks, he tries so hard to break out, only to lose anyway.

"It's okay," she lies. "Besides, I always knew you were too good for me, you know? I have good intuition."

And he wants to say, _no_, _it's not okay_, on top of his lungs, but he can't think of a reason why he would. It's not like he can mess up enough, anyway. It makes him sick, makes him feel like a jerk and a douchebag and everything that he knows he hates.

And he can practically hear something in her break when she says, her face an inch away from his: "See you tomorrow, Red."

The door creaks and he knows it's over when her footsteps stop echoing in the hall.

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He holds hands with Yellow, the next day, shamelessly, but nobody cares, and they kiss and laugh and watch movies together but.

Sometimes, he can't help but think of the girl before; the girl in the background, with her insincere smiles and blunt words and restrained gestures, and he doesn't quite know how to pin down the feeling when he does.

He doesn't think he ever will.

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**A/N: **Ugh. I'm not even sure what this is anymore. In case you couldn't tell, I'm really bad at writing endings.

FYI, I don't even ship Red/Yellow—I don't even like Yellow. But I wanted to challenge myself, so I ended up with this… thing.

Review, please.


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